


Bay at the Moon

by Orianne (morganya)



Category: Whose Line Is It Anyway? RPF
Genre: F/M, Suicide Attempt, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-04-04
Updated: 2003-04-04
Packaged: 2017-11-03 00:37:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/375119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganya/pseuds/Orianne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Monsters turn up in the most unlikely places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bay at the Moon

It was too late to be on the road. The stars were out; the moon was fat and pale. Brad leaned against the headrest as Sean'a drove; he could only think about getting home, swallowing some aspirin to ward off the hangover and falling into bed.

"At least there's no traffic," Sean'a said to the steering wheel. "I hate driving this late at night. It makes me feel...cut off. Like we're the only ones left on earth. What possessed you to take a gig out in Santa Barbara anyway? A hour coming and going..."

"The thought of you in a bikini?" He turned his head and waggled his eyebrows.

"I can wear a bikini any day, buddy of mine. Santa Barbara isn't an immediate incentive. How do you think the show went?"

"Thinking's a little difficult right now."

"How much did you drink, anyway?"

"Why count when the liquor's free?" Brad looked out the car window. They were on a stretch of highway that seemed to go on forever. There was no line between the ground and the horizon. He looked back at Sean'a. "I don't think Santa Barbara's caught on to improv yet."

"That's what I thought." She took one hand off the wheel and brushed a strand of hair behind one ear. The light from the moon shone on her hair. Brad looked away. He pretended that his hand moved over the seat of its own accord. He stroked her knee, whistling absently.

She giggled and slapped his hand. "Stop that. I'm driving."

"Stop what?" He pressed his palm into her soft skin, massaging the inside of her thigh with his thumb.

"You horny bastard, _quit_. There'll be time for that when we get home."

"No time like the present."

"Bradley, I mean it—" She forcibly moved his hand. Brad sighed melodramatically and straightened up.

He saw the thing in the middle of the road too late.

It was huge, its dark fur shining in the car's headlights, feet set firmly on the ground. It looked right at Brad. Its eyes glowed.

"Sean'a, look out—"

She gasped and slammed on the brakes, but they skidded instead of stopping. The thing hit the car's front bumper; the metal shuddered. Sean'a frantically turned the steering wheel, a thin moan coming through her gritted teeth. The sound of the thing screaming under the front wheels wrenched Brad's stomach. The whole car seemed to be filled with screams.

Sean'a got the car to the side of the road and turned it off, leaning her head against the wheel. "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus," she whispered. "Is it okay? I'm so sorry, I didn't see it—I can still hear it _screaming_ , oh, Jesus..."

"Honey, shhh." Brad was almost totally sober now. "It was my fault. I'll go see if it's all right."

"Don't get out of the car, please—"

"I'll be careful." He opened the door and swung his legs out. The thing was lying in a heap in the middle of the road. Blood pooled around it. Brad fought the urge to turn around.

It was dead, that was no question. It was too still. Brad went a little closer.

It looked like an oversized dog. Brad winced. Having to explain to some poor people that he and Sean'a had killed their pet...He didn't relish the thought. He leaned down and brushed the dark, matted fur away in the search for a collar.

It came to life all at once, snarling, snapping. It grabbed his arm between its jaws and didn't let go. Brad yowled. He could feel the thing's teeth going through the skin, the blood starting to come. Sean'a screamed from somewhere behind him; he could hear the car's horn going.

He pounded on the thing's body with his free hand, pulling his arm back towards his body. He heard something snap, a guitar string pulled too tight, a new pain added to the rest. He gasped, bringing his fist down hard. "Get off get off oh Christ get _off_..."

It let go. Brad jerked away, taking two steps back. His blood dripped onto the asphalt. The thing hauled itself to its feet. Sean'a was still screaming, but Brad could only stare at the thing, into those glowing eyes.

It turned and ran. It shouldn't have been possible, but it was still able to run, its legs lurching sickeningly under its body, its insides hanging out. It disappeared, a blip on the horizon.

Brad knelt down onto the highway, retching. His arm radiated pain; his right hand felt heavy and useless.

A car door slammed behind him. Sean'a dragged him up. "Come on, we're going to the hospital, come on."

"Hospital?" Blood splatted on the asphalt. Little red drops of rain.

"Come on. Lift your arm up."

"I can't fucking move it—"

"You can." He heard tears in her voice. "Come on, baby, please, please..." She clamped her small hands over his arm, pressing down over the wound. He wanted to jerk away. His head spun.

She pulled off his jacket and wrapped it tightly around his arm before she forced it into a bent position. Brad bit the inside of his lip.

"I'm gonna pass out..." His voice faded.

"You're not. We're going to the hospital. Now."

He got into the car; Sean'a started it up as soon as she got back into the driver's seat. The stars outside his window blurred as they drove back down the highway. Brad wanted to say she was driving too fast, but his arm hurt too much and he was afraid he would throw up if he opened his mouth. She was talking, her words indistinct, calling him names like honey and sweetie. The jacket around his arm was soaked with blood.

She pulled into the ambulance entrance at Cottage Hospital, jerked the door open and ran inside without shutting it. He watched her disappearing form. Something had clicked off inside his head; he saw her leave, but it didn't affect him. The pain was still there, but he could withdraw from that as well. He stared out the window at the sky. The moon was huge.

Someone opened his door. Brad looked up at two large men. Curious eyes surveyed him back.

"Mr. Sherwood?"

Brad slumped forward, and when he blacked out so did the pain.

*****

A week later, Sean'a took him home to heal. A week after that, Brad sat on the couch, tracing his scars as he watched TV.

The doctors had warned him about touching the wounds before the bandages were off, but Brad couldn't stop himself. He'd gotten a look at his arm after the surgery to suture the tendons back together; his eye taking in the straight surgical cut against the ragged bite marks, stitched up with black thread, the marks red and new. Even with the surgery, two fingers on his right hand stayed stiff and kinked, resisting all efforts to straighten them. The doctors had said the wolf had done some serious damage, gave Brad a splint, said they'd set him up with a physical therapist, warned that even then he might never get the full use of his hand back.

_Fucking wolves. In Santa Barbara. When did wolves decide to make Santa Barbara their territory?_

The police had alerted animal control, warned about signs of rabies (Brad winced at the memory; he'd gone through the whole series of rabies shots in the hospital, needles poking everywhere), looked for the animal's body without success. The fact that he was an actor who'd been bitten by a wolf was enough to interest the media; they'd come to his hospital bed and he'd tried to be funny and self-deprecating through a haze of antibiotics, IV fluids and pain medication. It was embarrassing. Brad wanted, more than anything, to kick that stupid wolf in the teeth for doing this to him.

Sean'a came in, back from the store, her arms full of groceries. She gave him a quick smile and went into the kitchen. Bo tagged after her, wagging his stump of a tail. Within two seconds she was back, dropping the newspaper on the coffee table. She wrapped herself around him.

He could still feel her fear. The first night he was back in their house, she'd sat on the bed and watched him struggle through the prescribed hand exercises, his fingers obstinately stiff, and he watched her eyes become faraway and guilty.

In two weeks she would be going to Toronto. She'd landed herself a part in a small independent feature; from what she'd told him, it was the old, reliable 'hooker with a heart of gold' character. She would be gone for a month.

She didn't want to go. She hadn't said anything, but he felt her memorizing his face whenever they stopped talking for a minute, making sure he was still there. There wasn't much he could say to make her feel at ease, other than that he was fine. Even that wasn't much encouragement.

She untangled herself from his arms. "Got the paper." She slid it along the table to him.

"Ahhh. Nothing I like more than my daily dose of Fox Trot."

"Can I change this?" Sean'a pointed at the television.

"Go ahead." Brad opened the paper, scissoring the edges with his bad hand. She stared fixedly at the television screen. She hated watching him do anything with his hands these days, Brad had figured out; whenever the occasion arose she would stare in the opposite direction.

Brad skimmed through the news without much interest. He liked to keep aware of current events, just to be on his toes. The only real item that caught his eye was hidden halfway down the current events page.

> **Police investigations are underway after the nude, mutilated body of an unidentified man was discovered by a jogger along the 101 freeway.**

> **Officers cordoned off the area near the Garden Street exit, where the body was discovered along the side of the road.**

> **The death appears to be the result of a hit and run and a post mortem has been conducted.**

> **Any information concerning the body's identity can be directed...**

"Honey, look at this," Brad said. "We got off easy that night. Some poor bastard got killed by a car right near where we were."

"Really?" Sean'a stopped looking at the screen and peered over his shoulder at the paper. He waited until she pulled away to put it back on the coffee table.

"Jesus," she said. "That fucking road's a death trap." She pressed her chin to the top of her knee.

This wasn't the reaction Brad had expected. He'd been trying to make a joke, say, "Isn't it great this didn't happen?" He wondered what the right move would be to correct this.

She pushed her hair away from her face in a compulsive, nervous movement, not looking at him. She said nothing. Her hands shook.

Baffled, Brad put his arm around her shoulders, trying to keep his scars out of sight. She sighed and put her head against his shoulder.

"It's okay," he said. "It's okay."

*****

Sean'a was leaving for Toronto in the morning. Brad's hand was better; the fingers were still kinked, but he could move them a little, finally. The stitches were out, scars beginning the process of fading.

"You have to promise me something," Sean'a said, sprawled on the bed with him. Her suitcases were stacked by the door.

"What?"

"That I won't come home to find that you've had a bunch of wild parties without waiting for me to come home."

"Oh, you know me." Brad stretched. "I was just planning to put on some Bob Seger and dance around in my underwear. Same as usual."

"I never know whether or not you're kidding when you say things like that."

"Well, you're not supposed to," Brad said pleasantly.

She sighed and rolled over onto his chest. He traced the curve of her spine. He wished she wasn't leaving. She was only just being to become familiar to him again, regaining the old lazy lushness. She was just beginning to shake the fear off, let herself relax around him again. Two months away from him might make her start doubting he was still in one piece. Hell, two months away from her might make him doubt her solidity.

"Want me to take you to the airport in the morning?" he asked.

She peered up at him. "Will you be even awake then? I'll got to get to the airport at six."

"Well, you know, if you want me to."

"I think I can make it on my own. Don't need a babysitter." She put her ear over his heart. "Are you going to miss me?"

"Desperately," he said.

*****

Brad opened his eyes slowly. He snaked out his arm for Sean'a, but her side of the bed was empty. He sat up, grumbling.

He took the note from the bedside table. Her familiar script curled across the page.

> _Brad,  
>  Tried to wake you, but it didn't work. I'll call you when the plane lands. Love you madly.  
> S._

"Alone again," Brad said. He stood up and stretched, then went to get dressed, trying to remember what he had to do that day.

By four o'clock, he was bored. Sean'a had called at about one, he'd called to bother his agent at two, walked Bo, called all the single and half of the attached people he knew to unsuccessfully try to get a dinner invitation, and now he wandered around the house trying to think of something to do by himself.

 _It'll be different tomorrow,_ he told himself. _Starting to work again, more distractions, got to be some distractions..._

He sat down on the couch. He was tempted to take the splint off his hand; it itched. Bo came trotting up to him, clutching a battered tennis ball.

"Can't play in the house," Brad told him.

Bo stared at him. He dropped the ball at Brad's feet.

"What the hell," Brad said and tossed the ball into the other room. Bo charged after it.

"You break something, you'll pay for it," Brad yelled. "Why am I even saying this to you anyway?"

Bo just brought back the ball and waited patiently until he threw it again.

At five, he wound up sitting on the couch watching Lair of the White Worm on TV. The sun was going down. Bo snored quietly in the corner of the room.

"This is picturesque," Brad mumbled to himself. He fought the urge to scratch at the splint. "Doctors." He unhooked it and tossed it aside, flexing his elbow. "Ah, what do they know?"

He couldn't focus on the movie. He wasn't just bored, he was starting to feel claustrophobic. The house had gone dark by now, the moon was coming up. He went into the kitchen for beer.

He wedged the cold bottle into his right hand and went for the bottle opener. He'd thought that taking the splint off would make his arm feel better, but it itched even more. The cuts throbbed.

He was just reaching for the opener when fire shot up his arm.

Brad dropped the bottle. Glass and foam exploded on the floor; the smell of alcohol, strong as medicine, filled the room. Brad had fallen to his knees. He rocked back and forth, hissing, gripping his arm.

_Get up, asshole. Call an ambulance, something's wrong, get an ambulance, get someone..._

The pain receded just as suddenly as it had come on. Brad forced himself to stand up. He didn't feel any better, even without the pain. Sweat slid down his face. It was hard to breathe.

He staggered into the living room. Bo stood up in the corner, growling, teeth bared.

"Get outta here," Brad said hoarsely, gesturing. Bo fled into the other room; he stood barking and snarling as Brad opened the door that led out into the yard.

_Need some air. That's all I need, just a little air._

The grass looked brown in the dark. Brad forced himself to look up, then looked away. The moon was so bright even the sight of it hurt.

_Enough. Ambulance. Call an ambulance._

He walked back into the house, feet dragging. Bo was still barking. Brad couldn't think.

"Will you fucking—" He pitched forward, landing with a thump on the carpet. Everything went gray.

*****

Brad's face was wet. Birds sang over his head. He rolled to his side and sat up. He was in the yard.

"...The hell?" Brad muttered. He tried to remember what had gone on last night, but the only thing he could remember...He realized that he was sitting in his yard, stark naked.

"Shit!" Brad made a mad dash back inside the house. His clothes were tossed around the room.

Brad shut the door to the yard. His mouth tasted rank, of dirt and metal and something else. He put a hand up to his face. His fingers came away smeared with dirt and...

Blood.

Blood. Blood on his hands, drying across his chest, in his hair. His mouth tasted of old blood.

He made himself go into the bathroom and look in the mirror. The blood was all over him. It wasn't his.

"God," Brad said, his voice dry and blistered. He repeated it, just for emphasis. "God."

His legs were numb. He sank down on the edge of the tub, trying to swallow the taste of blood away, saying, again and again, "God, God, God..." The words turned into a prayer. He hadn't prayed since he was a child. He whispered the name, half-hoping for an answer that he knew wouldn't come.

He should get up, call the police, turn himself in for whatever it was. He stayed still. Finally he reached over and turned on the water.

He was too afraid of what the answer would be to find out.

_It's possible that it was nothing._

_Possible but unlikely._ Even without the blood, he knew something had happened. He didn't need to know what it was, but the guilt, the creeping dread, confirmed that it had happened.

"Get it off," Brad muttered, scrubbing at his hands under cold water. The blood flaked off and swirled away.

 _Out of sight, out of mind_. He almost laughed. Wash it away, pretend it's not there. _All the perfumes of Arabia..._

It took a hour and a half to scrub off the blood. His skin was swollen with water, rubbed raw, red as a newborn. He stood up and grabbed a towel. His cell phone rang distantly in the living room.

Brad didn't want to answer it. He wanted to go into his room and hide. He struggled to swallow.

_Goddamnit, you're an actor. Act. Let's play fucking pretend. Pick up the phone and act._

Brad went for the phone, awkwardly wedging it into his bad hand, and hit talk. "Sherwood." His voice came out cool and liquid.

"Mr. Sherwood?"

"Yes." Brad stared at the floor. He'd tracked dirt into the house when he'd run inside. He'd have to get out the vacuum to try to get rid of the dirt. Dirt mixed with blood. His stomach lurched. He kept talking into the receiver in calm, distant tones. "What can I do for you?"

"This is Raymond. The studio told me to ask you if you needed someone to pick you up today."

"What?" Brad said. He stared down at the clothes on the floor and the dirty carpet. "What?"

"Uh..." For a moment he almost felt sorry for Raymond. "I was told...I'm a driver, sir. I was informed you might have trouble driving today, that there'd been an accident with your hand?"

He'd almost forgotten the taping. _Not ready for this, can't do it..._ He said, "Oh, that. Yeah. I think you're on a wild goose chase, Raymond. My hand's okay. Sorry about that."

"Okay." Raymond paused. Brad briefly wondered if he should have taken the offer up. He hadn't driven in a while and he wasn't sure how well he'd do with one good hand. But he didn't feel up to facing anyone just yet.

"Um, so you don't need to be picked up today, Mr. Sherwood?"

"Ah, that's okay." Brad said. "Thanks anyway."

Raymond said shortly, "All right," and hung up.

Brad tossed the phone away. His hands were shaking, he noted absently. _Just fucking act._

*****

It was a new experience, driving almost one-handed to the studio. Brad stared straight ahead at the windshield. The fucking splint still itched.

_Don't think don't think don't think_

He got to the studio, walked into makeup, fielded off the concerned inquiries about his hand, and headed into the Green Room.

_Don't think._

Ryan lounged in one of the chairs in the peach-colored room. He looked up from his newspaper and waved absently at Brad.

"Hey. How's the hand?"

"The war wound, you mean? Fine." Brad sat down and scanned the room. They were alone.

"You see the paper this morning?"

"Hmm?" A cold ball formed in the pit of Brad's stomach. _Had to happen sooner or later._ "No."

"It happened real close to your house. I thought you might have heard something. They say there was some sort of animal attack last night."

"Animal?" He felt the ball loosening. "Like what, a bear or something?"

Ryan shrugged. He scowled down at the paper. "The paper didn't say. Just that a woman was mauled to death last night. Scary."

"Jesus."

"The doctor said that he'd never seen bites like that, except from wolves. So there's this wolf roaming around the hills. God, I'm glad my kids don't live here anymore."

"Wow." Brad said. He didn't want to know, didn't want to think. But he knew. Somewhere deep inside of him, he knew.

_Soft cloth dress fluttering in the wind. The dress tore so easily..._

The taste of blood came up in his mouth again. He swallowed it down.

"Brad?" Ryan, always so quick to notice, was on his feet. "You okay? It was because I said 'wolf,' wasn't it? Man, I'm dense. I'm just talking, you know."

 _Act._ Brad looked up. "Yeah. I oughta go to one of those support groups, you know? Wolfbites Anonymous. I have no idea what the program would be."

"The Wolfbites would be a great name for a rock band, though." Ryan started for the door. "Let's get this done."

Brad was a good actor. He could separate the real, thinking part of him and the funny, goofy part of him. A reflex. Just like chewing and swallowing.

But what the real part of him kept repeating, quietly, all through Party Quirks and Song Styles and Greatest Hits, was one word. _Werewolf._

*****

Werewolf chanted over and over in his head, a never-ending chorus, all through the drive home and the walk up the front steps.

Bo ran up to him, wagging his tail.

"Can't walk you now, buddy," Brad said. He ran his hand over the top of Bo's head. "It's the backyard for you."

When Bo was safely outside, Brad went into the bedroom and closed the door. He thought about moving a chair in front of it, but if he didn't have hands to turn the knob...

Losing my mind

Brad laid down on the bed and looked up at the ceiling. He'd paid enough attention in college astronomy classes to remember that lunar cycles lasted three days. If this thing—

Thing. That's a good name for it. Thing. The thing you've become. The thing you are.

If this thing was real, he had two more days to sweat it out. If he was wrong (I want to be wrong I want to be crazy I have to be crazy) he didn't know what to do.

The sun would go down in two hours. The moon would rise, a full, fat, pregnant harvest moon. And that would either provide the answers or it wouldn't.

Brad shut his eyes. If he could just sleep, it would be okay.

She ran away, but she wasn't fast enough. She screamed but no one was around. She screamed until the end, when teeth separated the sinew and muscle of her throat.

Brad shot up. He took the splint off his hand and tossed it across the room.

"Can't just lie here," he muttered and went to let Bo in.

Bo tried to follow him back into the bedroom. Brad said, "Not today," and shut the door behind him. Bo whimpered from behind the closed door, a baffled, strangely human sound.

"Can't do it," Brad said. He fought the temptation to add, _It's for your own good._

His cell phone rang. Brad glanced at his watch and took the call.

"Sherwood."

"Hi, honey." Sean'a sounded far away. Brad shut his eyes.

"Hey!" He sounded a little too chipper, but maybe she wouldn't notice. The moon would come up...when? Maybe it wouldn't work if he couldn't see it. "How is it up there? See any beavers yet?"

She laughed. Maybe she was buying it. He said, "I remember those days when my grandpappy would sit me on his knee and tell me the story about the great Canadian monster they called Lockjaw. 'It was back in eighteen ought six,' he'd say..."

"Have you been taking any drugs?"

He'd overdone it. He always overdid it. He wanted to tell her, _Come home. Something's happening to me. Tell me how to make it all better._ He said, "I wish I'd been taking drugs. I'm just in a rush. I can't stay long."

"Oh. I understand. I just wanted to hear your voice. Do you have to go now?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Love you."

"Love you too." Brad hung up. He thought about calling her back, but he didn't.

It was almost six. His right arm was twitching. Brad stiffened every muscle to try to keep it still; the fingers jerked and tapped by themselves. He covered it with his left hand; the skin felt hot.

He hauled himself off the bed and began pacing. He could smell the paint on the walls, the burnt wax coming off the candles in the fireplace. Bo scratched at the closed door from outside, low growls creeping under the threshold.

The scars began to throb. Brad fought back the urge to open the bedroom door; he just wanted out, out of this room, out of this house, out into the night air. If he could get out maybe he could stop hurting for a second.

It hurt. His arm was dead. Dead but still moving. Moving without cause, zombie arm, contaminated arm. Brad sat back on the bed, clawing at dead skin, and a flash of light passed behind his eyes. Red light, flecks of black light, and he fell forward.

He woke up naked on the floor, surrounded by down. The candles in the fireplace had been knocked over. Brad sat up and brushed feathers out of his hair. His arm still hurt; he looked down at it, looked at scratched, bloody skin. The old scars seemed to be intact.

The blanket on the bed had been shredded; that explained the feathers. Feathers and cloth were snowed all over the floor. Brad stood up and went to get dressed.

He didn't have it in him to be afraid anymore. He just felt tired and flat. _Got an answer. Don't know what it means, but you got your answer._

_What in Christ's name am I?_

He opened the door and padded out, trailing feathers out onto the floor. Bo lay at the end of the hall. He hurried over to Brad, wagging his tail. Brad knelt down and the dog licked at his face.

"What am I gonna do?" Brad said dully. "What the fuck am I gonna do?"

*****

Brad thought about going to the police, but he didn't know what to tell them. _Excuse me. I killed someone two nights ago. It's not my fault, I'm a werewolf. Lock me up or it'll happen again._ He thought about going to a hospital, but he still didn't know what to say. _I'm dangerous to others. Only when the moon's out, though._

Most likely they'd dismiss him as a crank. But the thought of what would happen if they believed him was worse. Locked up, studied, tested, exhibited. _Come inside. See the freak. Keep your hands away from him and don't make eye contact._

Sean'a would be coming home in a month. What would he say to her? He'd have to make her leave him. There was no guarantee he wouldn't do something to her.

He couldn't spend the rest of his life locking himself away for three days a month. He couldn't think about what had happened. He couldn't think about what was going to happen.

_Fix it. I'll fix it._

He went to his computer and logged on to the Web. He typed 'werewolf' into the search engine. One click, and a world of crazies opened to him.

Most of the sites seemed to be run by teenagers who claimed to be able to turn into a cat or a bear whenever they liked. There were pictures of men and women dressed up as birds or dolphins. Communities of people claiming to be 'were.'

"Pathetic," Brad mumbled. He fought the urge to scratch at the splint. He had the feeling that this was all he was going to get, but he clicked onto something else.

Finally he found something, a site by a doctor claiming to know the cure for lycanthropy. _Bet he got his medical degree from one of those mail-in places._

Brad felt his mouth go dry when he read the word 'blood.' "Bloodletting is your only hope," the doctor wrote. "Your blood is contaminated. You must get rid of it." Brad clicked out of the site. _Nutcase_. He kept searching.

Sites by people claiming to be former werewolves. They all said the same thing. Open up a vein and bleed until you pass out. Brad looked at the screen. Half of him wanted to write it off as more cranks, the other half kept seeing the image of soft fabric, silk maybe, fluttering in the wind, tearing under the pressure of sharp teeth.

Click. _I used a small knife._ Click. _Drinking beforehand will thin the blood (and steady your nerves)._ Click. _It may sound extreme, and it is dangerous._ Click. _It's your only option._ Click. _Only choice._ Click. _You can put yourself at risk for one hour, or condemn yourself to fear and hiding for the rest of your life._ Click. _Don't whine about fearing for your life. Your life is over. Your life, as a were, is this. You can lock yourself away for the rest of your miserable days, you can risk being arrested for the crimes you will commit out of hunger, and risk spreading your contamination to the sad fucks who survive your attacks. That's your life. Do you want to live in an entire city, an entire world, populated with nothing but the bodies of your victims and your enfeebled mongrel spawn?_ Click.

Brad turned off the computer. He tried to swallow away the dark, coppery taste in his mouth. "I can't."

_The moon's coming out again tonight._

"I can't do it." There had to be some other way. There had to be. He just didn't know what it was.

There was no medical information for him to look through, no hotline he could call for advice. The idea of letting someone see what he'd turned into...

_Don't put me in a cage._

Brad walked into the kitchen and poured a glass of whiskey. He looked at his watch. One o'clock. In a couple of hours the moon would rise again, and he could either lock himself in the bedroom again or take his chances that he wouldn't get outside and—

_Soft, soft dress blowing in the wind_

Brad took a gulp of whiskey. It tasted of medicine. He wondered if he should write a note, just in case. He couldn't believe he was thinking seriously about this.

Bo sat by his food bowl, looking up at Brad. Brad dutifully shoveled some food into the bowl. He opened the drawer with the knives. His heart thudded.

_I'm sorry, Mom._

"Watch the house for me, boy," Brad said softly to Bo. He picked up a knife.

He walked into the bathroom and took his shirt off, kneeling down by the tub. He programmed 911 into the speed dial. If he phoned the minute he started feeling dizzy, he could minimize the risks. He looked at the knife. Light glinted on the steel blade.

_I don't want to be alone_

Brad picked up the knife and tried not to shut his eyes. Just one cut. Just one.

It was so simple once he got past the fear. He knelt over the tub, watching blood slide down his wrist. He'd have to scrub the bathtub out when everything was over.

When his vision began to swim he called 911. He spoke calmly into the phone and rested his forehead against the porcelain. It was just like going to sleep.

*****

Brad woke up and smelled clean sheets and bleach. It was a hospital smell. There was a nurse standing over him.

"Hello," Brad said.

She crossed to his bedside. "Ah, you're awake. You gave everyone quite a scare."

"Tell me about it," Brad said. "Am I...?"

"You're at White Memorial. You should be out of here soon."

"Anyone call my girlfriend?"

The nurse looked blank. Brad said, "Never mind. How long have I been here?"

"Since yesterday afternoon. You could have very easily died, you know."

"Yeah, I know. What time is it?"

"It's six am."

Morning. Brad said casually, "Anything interesting happen during the night? You know, anything I should know about?"

"I'd say being on the verge of shock and almost bleeding to death was pretty interesting."

"Besides that. Anything else?"

She shook her head, looking confused. She came closer to his bedside. "It was...Why'd you try to hurt yourself?"

Brad looked away. A dull sense of relief flooded over him. "It's hard to explain."

Somewhere outside, he imagined he heard the long, sad cry of a wolf.


End file.
